


Asphalt for Days

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, there’s the way no one ever looks <em>happy</em> to be moving into the Powell Estate. That’s not really a cause for celebration — council housing — but here’s this bloke, grinning from ear to ear, cheerfully lugging boxes up the stairs.</p><p>Earlier she’s pretty sure she even heard him <em>whistling</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asphalt for Days

**Author's Note:**

> This is another one for [my Trope Bingo card](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/1724.html?thread=30908), the AU: Neighbors square. It’s a WIP, which I think might be, literally, the first time I’ve ever done that.
> 
> It’s also because I’ve spent months wanting an AU (very, very) loosely themed around Walk the Moon’s ‘Anna Sun,’ and I’ve finally reached the point where I’m just going to write it.  
> 

He doesn’t fit in, right from the start.

First, there’s the way no one ever looks  _happy_  to be moving into the Powell Estate. That’s not really a cause for celebration — council housing — but here’s this bloke, grinning from ear to ear, cheerfully lugging boxes up the stairs.

Earlier she’s pretty sure she even heard him  _whistling_.

Second, if someone on the Estate does manage a smile, they’re certainly not wearing it with a suit. But this bloke, all buttoned up in pinstripes and brown, he’s defying convention again. His brother’s got one on, too, and it’s even nicer-looking — black and expensive and smart.

Or, well, she assumes they’re brothers. Friends, maybe?  _Boyfriends_? It would certainly explain the hair on both of them, artfully disheveled and carefully styled with product that she’s sure costs more than a year’s worth of the stuff she uses.

The blond one, at least, seems to have the right disposition about things. Every time she’s come down for a cigarette today, still hungover and blessedly with a day off work, he’s been there, sucking on his own cigarette across the pavement and looking completely disinterested. She hasn’t seen him lift a single box.

It’s probably the fourth or fifth time, throat already scratchy and fingers faintly stained yellow, when her lighter runs out of fluid and she’s stuck between having to run upstairs and rummage for matches, or bum a light off of him. Before she can even holler over, he’s in front of her, looking only marginally less disinterested as he holds a lighter in front of her face.

"Ta," she says when she’s done inhaling, the tip of the cigarette flaming to life.

She expects the bloke to sod off back to the other side of the yard, or at least try to chat her up, but instead he stands there, smoking, unnervingly silent and completely out of place. He even taps his cigarette wrong, ashing it with the tip of his index finger, instead of flicking at it with his thumb like everyone else she knows.

"So, you’re moving in then?" She’s only talking to fill the space, because, god, the cigarettes are supposed to  _relax_  her, not make her all anxious because some posh little twat in a suit doesn’t have any sense of council etiquette.

"Something like that," he says, and what does that even  _mean_? You’re either moving in or you’re not. Brilliant, another loony, like that’s what she needs. She’s only just gotten rid of the last, and what a mess that had been. Fucking Jimmy Stone and his fucking stupid guitar.

The man focuses on her again, intense this time, and it makes the back of her neck go hot. He’s not bad-looking, but it’s not that sort of stare — or, at least, not entirely — it’s something like being judged, appraised, she can’t put her finger on it, but it’s sure as hell condescending.

"Can I help you?" She says, and if there’s a bite in her voice, all the better.

"What’s your name?" He says, and it’s like she hasn’t even spoken.

There’s so much gossip on the Estate that there’s no way she’d get away with a fake name for long, even though it’s enticing, coming up with a new one, something she can be called by men in suits, with expensive cologne.

"Rose," because she isn’t a girl called anything by men in suits, with expensive cologne.

The bloke nods, sneering, smirking, it’s tough to say.

"What’s yours?"

His eyes trail up and down the length of her again and she wishes she’d worn a hoodie, something to zip up tight, right to her neck.

"I’m the Master," he says.

It’s not  _entirely_  unheard of, a name like that, especially with some of the gangs in the area. This bloke doesn’t like he’s got spots, or an ASBO, but maybe it’s bigger than that, more Godfather or something. Mickey’ll flip.

The Master points across the courtyard, to where the brown-suited bloke is lugging another box toward the stairwell.

"That’s the Doctor," he says.

"And he’s — what? Your brother?" She pauses, considering, weighing his possible reaction, "Your boyfriend?"

This time it’s a smirk for sure, “Oh,  _labels_ , how quaint.”

The Doctor turns to look at them, setting the box down to raise a hand in greeting, before jogging over.

"Think that’s the last of it," he tells the Master, pointing at the box across the courtyard.

Rose shifts so she can see it, there’s something written on the side, and she’s trying to make it out — dishes, spare bedroom, anything — but it doesn’t actually look like a word, just a series of interconnected circles.

When she turns back, both of the blokes are looking at her, but the Doctor’s face is much more open, much friendlier.

"Gonna introduce me to your new friend?" The Doctor’s question is clearly directed at the Master, but his eyes never waver from Rose’s.

"You can introduce yourself," the Master says. "I’m going to check on the equipment, make sure you haven’t broken anything."

And with that, he turns and walks away, neatly sidestepping the box at the stairwell, before pushing through the door.

"I’m Rose," she offers, when the Master’s disappeared from view. The cigarette is still burning between her fingers and she raises it to take a drag.

The Doctor sticks out his hand to shake her free one, but it’s the wrong hand, and he ends up with a backward gesture that makes her smile in spite of herself.

Maybe it’s  _this_  one that’s the nutter.

"I’m the Doctor," he says when he lets go. "Just moved in. Or, well, something like that."

There it is again — how can they be moving in, but not moving in? Unless, oh god, what if it’s a lab or a grow operation or something? Move to a bad part of town for the messy bits. Hell, they could probably sell right here, too. Not like the Estate’s famous for its clean living.

"Listen," she says, even though it’s foolish, even though the first rule of this type of place is to mind your own business. "We don’t need any trouble here, all right? Not any more of it, at least."

The Doctor squints at her, and she squares her shoulders, still somehow feeling fearless in the face of this skinny bloke and, god, this one smells even better than the other one. Spicy and sweet, and there’s no way these two get their hands dirty, whatever it is they’re into.

"Trouble’s just the bits in between," he chirps. "And anyway, you look like you like a bit of trouble."

His eyes widen deliberately, a smile playing across his lips, as he takes in her outfit, the ripped jeans and the stretched out t-shirt, hair in a messy pile on the top of her head.

She locks her eyes on his.

"Or trouble likes me," she says, and it’s not half as ominous as she means it, because he grins even wider.

&&.

Rose doesn’t see either of them for three days.

She’s slammed at work, double shifts every time she turns around, and there’s just life, too, getting in the way. Shireen’s latest boy crisis, trips down the pub with Mickey, ignoring the way he’s laying it on extra thick with Tricia Delaney.

Her mum’s started cutting hair again, and the flat’s a revolving door of clients, when all Rose wants is some goddamn peace and quiet.

The blow dryer’s going on Howard from the market — and what a laugh that is, Howard’s barely got any hair to cut, let alone blow dry, but her mum accepts his money, and all his clumsy flirtations, just the same — when there’s a loud knock on the door.

"Mum," she shouts back to the kitchen. The sofa is comfortable, the first chance she’s had to sit on it in what feels like ages, and she really,  _really_  does not want to get up.

Another knock sounds and she tries again, raising her voice to be heard over the blow dryer, “Mum! Your next client is here!”

But the noise of the machine doesn’t stop, and the knocking is getting more insistent.

"All right, all right, I’m coming," she calls, pushing herself up off the sofa and walking toward the door.

She swings it open with a barely concealed sigh, and there’s the Doctor.

He’s wearing the same brown suit as before, every detail of him carefully preserved to look exactly like it had days ago.

"Rose!" His face splits with a smile. "What are you doing here?"

It’s hard to ignore a grin like that, and she ducks her head, trying to smother the way the corners of her mouth are curling up.

"I live here," she says, and steps aside so he can enter.

His brow furrows, like he hadn’t entertained that possibility, but then he’s nodding.

"Right, right, course you do," he says. "Heard I could get my hair cut here. Is that — you? Do you cut hair?"

His voice almost sounds hopeful, and for a moment she wishes she’d bothered to learn how to do it, wishes she’s listened to her mum and at least learned a “trade.”

She shakes her head, “No, that’s my mum. She’ll be ready for you in a minute. Let me just tell her you’re here.”  
   
The noise of the blow dryer has stopped and Rose can just hear her mum, giggling at Howard in the background. It’s not like she knew her dad or anything, but still, it’s not exactly her favorite thing to see, her mum chatting up the local grocer, and she turns back to the Doctor.

"On second thought, why don’t we get you set up with a shampoo? She’ll be done soon."

She leads him back to the bathroom, it’s not much, pretty standard, but Mickey had helped her mum outfit the sink so that she could wash hair in it — a groove in the basin, a little movable water sprayer, and a rickety folding chair off to the side.

Opening the chair and pulling down a towel, she nods for the Doctor to sit, before wrapping the towel around his neck.

"I can do this bit, at least," she tells him. It’s not that she’s got a weakness for hair like his, really  _great_  hair, it’s just she’s being a good daughter, helping out.

And if she thinks that enough times, maybe she’ll believe it.

She turns the water on and tests the temperature, tipping the Doctor’s head back into the sink before spraying it down.

He’s looking up, right at her, and when she checks to make sure his hair is wet enough for the shampoo, his eyes slip shut briefly. His hair is tacky with product, but soft underneath, long enough to really get her fingers through it, and, at the very least, this’ll be a nice thought for when she goes to bed tonight.

She reaches for the shampoo, squirting some into her palm before beginning to massage it into the Doctor’s hair. She’s carefully ignoring the soft sound of his breathing, the way his eyelids keep flickering open and shut. He only barely smothers a noise at one point, and she bites back a laugh as she begins to rinse. Maybe she’d been just a  _little_  too thorough.

When she’s done, she rubs the towel over his head, soaking up the excess water before he takes it from her and finishes it up himself.

They haven’t spoken much at all, which suits her just fine, leaves her plenty of room to project the personality she wants on to him, but the way he’s shifting on his feet is endearing, and she relents.

"You’re all set then," she says. "My mum should be ready for you."

He nods, but doesn’t leave the room, instead folding the towel neatly and handing it back to her.

It’s awkward, not as awkward as it could be, but she still rushes to fill the silence.

"Not getting too much off, are you?" She gestures at his hair, the way it’s flopping down with the weight of the water.

He turns, preening in front of the mirror as he finger-combs his fringe back and forth.

"Why?" He asks. "Don’t you think I should?"

It’s a trap, the sort she can spot a mile away, his eyes sparkling at her, teeth bright behind the edges of a smile.

"I think you should do what you want," she tells him, ducking around him to leave the bathroom. He follows and she hands him off to her mum, forcing herself not to look or listen as her mum begins work.

It’s not even fifteen minutes later, and she’s barely glanced at the magazine open on her lap, when the Doctor’s back out of the kitchen, heading for the door as he scrubs a hand through his still-damp hair.

"See you around, Rose," he says, and it’s so casual, all of it, everything about this bloke, that she can’t help the little thrill that crawls up her spine.

"Bye," she says with a wave, letting her tongue touch her teeth, flirting a little, and then he’s out of the flat, door closing behind him.

She can only force herself to wait a few seconds before she’s bounding off the sofa toward the kitchen. Her mum’s cleaning up, dunking clippers in and out of the disinfectant, and she looks up when Rose walks in.

"Hi, sweetheart," she says. "Thanks for taking care of the shampoo on that one. You know how Howard gets, nearly had to chase him out with a broom." There’s a smile on her mum’s face though, one that would seem to say she doesn’t mind Howard in the least.

"No problem," Rose says, reaching to toss the apron on the chair into the small laundry bin. There’s not a lot of hair on it, not a lot of hair anywhere, actually.

"What’d he have you do? The Doctor, I mean." Rose tries to make it sound like she couldn’t care less, like it’s the weather and not the handsome, new, nattily-dressed bloke she’s maybe a little fixated on.

"You know, he barely had me do anything," her mum says. "Kept worrying I was going to take too much off. Hardly a haircut at all, in the end."

Rose nods, and the grin unpacks itself across her face before she can stop it.

"Looked good, Mum," Rose says. "The haircut, I mean. You did a nice job."

Jackie finally looks up, “Oh, sweetheart, not in there, those are the  _clean_  aprons.”

Rose tunes out, drifting back into the living room, and into a daydream on the sofa.

Maybe she gets involved, gets herself a suit, deals and mobile phones, a pile of cash big enough to get her  _and_  her mum off the Estate.

It’s fuzzy, even in her daydream, the business of those boys in suits, but it’s pleasant enough to take her clear into the evening.

A trip to the chip shop and two cigarettes later, the Doctor’s hand is grabbing hers out of nowhere, right in the middle of the courtyard.

"Run," he says.


End file.
